...except in a legible format. Words are unedited [save for clarity] but I did rearrange the order of things:
Traveling alone. What a trip. Not literally. From everyone to no one to everyone again.
I'm lost and not lost.
The parks here advertise wifi. Parks.
Everyone is talking. To each other. On the phone. To themselves. On the phone but looks like talking to themselves.
Seagulls dine on the garbage on 3rd avenue / sparrows dine on a fell pizza slice
Gay ketchup marriage.
I noticed your lipstick. You don't need lipstick.
I do feel less self-conscious here. Is it the city doing that? Is it me being a tourist anywhere? Is it a growing personality trait in general? Sorta sick of being alone and left to my own thoughts. At the same
time, sick of talking about myself. I've never asked myself what am I
doing here as much as when I'm in NYC.
Has being sarcastic fucked my life over? No, not being sarcastic has fucked other people over.
I'm way too aware of how I look for not caring how I look.
Whatever this state of mind is, I feel the opposite of present. I have to remind myself to exist. To be.
Showing posts with label washington dc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label washington dc. Show all posts
4.20.2015
The Rothko Room
My experience at The Rothko Room at the Phillips Collection in Washington DC. You should go to there.
"No more than eight people at a time. No strollers" a sign commands. A dampness pads the nostrils as you enter the room. You are introduced to four giant canvases on the white walls: red and orange; green, red, and blue; yellow, orange, and red; forest green and orange. Of course, these are not the only colors present. But they have the most presence.
A lattice of wooden floorboards creaks beneath your feet. Have a seat: a creakier bench feels like it may collapse beneath your weight, despite how weightless you feel in this room.
The room. It's quiet. It's calm. Are you calm? It's how Rothko's paintings make me feel. Forget that he's the posterboy for how silly abstract expressionism is represented in the mainstream (maybe behind Pollack). Rothko's paintings outrage many, but they are calming to me. To sit in the Rothko Room, alone, is as close as I've felt to a meditative experience in awhile.
I feel small but I don't feel insignificant. I feel free of desire, but not overwhelmed. I also feel a bit overwhelmed. There is me, four painted canvases, a sliver of a vertical window facing north, and I feel something that not a lot of people have the chance to feel. Does the fact that abstract expressionism creates a serene feeling in me add to my privilege? Should I just lean into my privilege at this point? Stop running away from what I am?
A man walks into the room. He takes one picture. He leaves.
A man walks into the room. He takes four pictures. He stands for a moment. He leaves.
Were these men even in the room?
I sat in this room for five minutes. I spent some time walking around the room, looking at the paintings up close and from afar. I took a selfie with each photo. I left the room. Was I any more present than the previous men? Was I ever even in the room?
"No more than eight people at a time. No strollers" a sign commands. A dampness pads the nostrils as you enter the room. You are introduced to four giant canvases on the white walls: red and orange; green, red, and blue; yellow, orange, and red; forest green and orange. Of course, these are not the only colors present. But they have the most presence.
A lattice of wooden floorboards creaks beneath your feet. Have a seat: a creakier bench feels like it may collapse beneath your weight, despite how weightless you feel in this room.
The room. It's quiet. It's calm. Are you calm? It's how Rothko's paintings make me feel. Forget that he's the posterboy for how silly abstract expressionism is represented in the mainstream (maybe behind Pollack). Rothko's paintings outrage many, but they are calming to me. To sit in the Rothko Room, alone, is as close as I've felt to a meditative experience in awhile.
I feel small but I don't feel insignificant. I feel free of desire, but not overwhelmed. I also feel a bit overwhelmed. There is me, four painted canvases, a sliver of a vertical window facing north, and I feel something that not a lot of people have the chance to feel. Does the fact that abstract expressionism creates a serene feeling in me add to my privilege? Should I just lean into my privilege at this point? Stop running away from what I am?
A man walks into the room. He takes one picture. He leaves.
A man walks into the room. He takes four pictures. He stands for a moment. He leaves.
Were these men even in the room?
I sat in this room for five minutes. I spent some time walking around the room, looking at the paintings up close and from afar. I took a selfie with each photo. I left the room. Was I any more present than the previous men? Was I ever even in the room?
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